


The Fruits of Your (Emotional) Labor

by JoLau



Category: Sister Claire (Webcomic)
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, ongoing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:42:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24400780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoLau/pseuds/JoLau
Summary: What if Eden didn't fall? What if Clementine learned to rely on others before it was too late?...What if Clementine found a baby?
Relationships: Clementine/Gabby (Sister Claire)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 2





	1. The Discovery, But It's Different

**Author's Note:**

> Some basics notes in regards to the setting, so it makes a little more sense:
> 
> -Clementine isn't dead (Obviously). Aside from that, pretty much everything is the same, except that Thronum Mare didn't suffer a plague because I'm unsure of what happened in canon, and so I'm not confident in making changes other than "it just didn't happen". 
> 
> -This starts a few years after Eden was originally slated to crumble; Clementine is thus a few years older than when she died in the source material, so she's of a similar age to Claire in the comic's current timeline (21).
> 
> -Gabby still has a complicated relationship with her state of mortality, but she's a little more stable.
> 
> -The origin of the Fruit Baby is similar, but a little different.
> 
> That said, aside from skimming it a couple times myself, this work wasn't really proof-read. Let me know if there are any parts of the writing that don't make sense so that I can edit and clarify. 
> 
> Constructive criticism is welcome! 
> 
> Enjoy.

There’s noise over the waves surrounding Eden. Clementine cocks her ear to the wind and listens. Tracking best as she can, she clambers over the rocks, scaling the slippery stones with due caution. Clem’s a damn good swimmer, but she’s no mer-person, and even a mer-person would blanch upon witnessing the impact of roaring water crashing against the jagged, toothy shore. Thankfully having an arm composed entirely of sentient vines gives her a one-up over other land-dwellers in that it has no problem gripping slick surfaces. 

She reaches the noise, finally. It’s coming from an outcrop far below the highest rise of Eden, yet still high enough away from the sea to be just generously misted. It’s dry enough to foster terrestrial plant life, scraggy little bushes and bristly grass, the kind seabirds are wont to nest in. it gives away the closer she gets to the centre, becoming shorter, denser, greener. There are even little flowers cropping up, buttercups and field daisies. And in the middle of it; a tree, corkscrewed wood with an uncanny appearance bending over in an arc, resting in a way that would suggest relief, a massive, plump fruit split open, hanging onto its branch by just a few fibers. 

Finally, her eyes fall to the source of her intrigue. 

Clementine’s seen a lot in her life. Been through a lot. A lot more than most individuals her age could boast. Still, this has her pretty surprised. In the other half of that huge fruit, the rind cradles viscous jelly and seeds the size of her fist. 

And a tiny, wailing baby, covered in pulpy fruit juice.

 _What the fuck_ , is the first thought that can even come to mind as she rushes over and kneels next to it- _her, a quick glance tells her; but that could change as she grows up_ \- sliding a palm under the infant’s tiny little head to take the strain off of her delicate, tiny neck. She lifts her into the crook of her viney arm. It tingles immediately, little flower buds rising along the creeping sinews. Clementine marvels at it; the baby, the flowers, the sudden sensation of warmth shuddering up her arm that shouldn’t feel much aside from _ouch_ and _not-ouch_ thanks to it possessing only a basic nervous system. But here it is. And it’s weird. It’s a wonder.

“H-how d-d-did you even g-get here,” she asks as if the baby can actually reply, staring down into inquisitive blue eyes. The baby stopped shrieking as soon as she was lifted against Clementine’s chest. “W-what t-t-the hell is t-this stuff?” Clementine mumbles, reaching forward with her fleshy hand and touching the goop that came from the fruit, scooping it up with her fingers. The baby begins to babble as Clementine takes a whiff of the stuff on her fingers. It smells... fruity, unsurprisingly. A little bit sour, too. _Taste it_ , her monkey-brain howls, and she’s never been one to deny herself of new experiences. Clementine touches the tip of her tongue against her gooey fingers. 

Regret kicks her like a horse. “GUH-” unexpected bitterness singes her tongue. It’s a terrible taste. Like earwax, and don’t ask her how she knows what that tastes like, alright; she grew up with a bunch of kids that encouraged each other to do gross shit for kicks and giggles. As Clementine is wiping her hand off on her pants, though, she hears a little mewl, and looks down. The baby’s eyes are big and watery and Clementine suddenly, guiltily, realizes that she’d ignored - not on purpose - the baby. They stare at each other for a few awkward seconds before the baby whines and fusses and kicks her feet, reaching out for Clementine’s free hand. Clementine lowers it to the baby’s grasping hands. The little one immediately starts to mouth at her fingertips, just to start hiccuping at the lack of… something. 

Clementine’s a pretty studious person. She did a lot of reading as a Helsing initiate, and even more when she began to devise a plan to create a city with an infrastructure made almost only of living trees. So imagine the baby’s distress when two and two aren’t immediately put together. Turning a cheek to Clementine’s offered hand she looks to the fruit, then back to Clementine. Fruit, Clementine. Fruit, Clementine. Hiccup, fruit, hiccup, Clementine. Wobbly lip, teary eyes, Fruit, nasally whine, Clementine- 

“Oh,” Clementine digs her finger into the gelatin and offers that up instead. Immediately the baby latches back on, grasping her finger and suckling the thick juices from it. Clementine grimaces. But, hey, if the baby’s happy… and besides, she doubts it’s poisonous despite how gross it tastes, and even if it was for Clementine, the baby looks as if she… came from that. The fruit. Gestated inside of it, partook of the weird pomegranate for her nutrients while she grew. Clementine feeds the baby another fingerful and busies herself with studying the split fruit in more depth, adjusting to sit on her butt so her knees won’t crack when she finally stands up. 

Aside from the obvious deviation of it being roughly the size of, oh, an average _human torso_ , there aren’t many differences between this fruit and others that are similar. It has the pink-red rind of a pomegranate, but the actual density and toughness of the peel are more similar to a persimmon. The skin is malleable, but hard. And the insides… clusters of seeds take up the part of the fruit that fell to the ground when it opened, still stuck fast in the flesh, while several clumps from the mirroring side lie on the ground, having fallen out. Clementine’s thankful the baby obviously had a gentle landing; fleeting queasiness constricts her throat when her eyes land on several seeds that split open from the impact of hitting the earth, fleshy coatings ruptured, frothy innards exposed. There’s another difference- rather than being solid, the pith, the inside of the seed, is rather gelatinous. The horticulturalist within her awakens and takes the metaphorical wheel of her brain.

So engrossed in examining the fruit was Clementine that she does not notice when the little one stops sucking on her fingertips to instead nestle against her breast and sigh, satisfied, and fall into slumber. Clementine only notices when she hears the first weak snore, blinking herself back into the present, looking down at the baby. Oh. Well, after a good meal, she was inclined to fall into a food-induced coma, too. Carefully, she stands up, holding the baby in both arms. The flowers on her vine-arm are all opened up now, blue blossoms with yellow carpels, the short and stout petals arranged to form little five-petalled stars. _Forget-me-nots_. Clementine’s always been the only one to ever cause her own arm to bloom. 

Clementine asks some of the ivy creeping over the side of Eden’s natural seawall to help her back up top, making the very reasonable decision to not try and climb wet rocks while holding an infant. Stepping into the stirrup the ivy offers and holding onto braided tendrils, Clementine makes a mental note to return here with some jars to collect as much of the fruit’s thick nectar as possible; she’s unable to feed this new responsibility herself, and Gabby won’t be able to either, and if she doesn’t have to make an awkward request for someone to breastfeed this random baby beside their own child, that’s all for the better. The ivy lifts her, and she affords one more look to that day’s discovery, eerie familiarity washing over her as the gnarled, twisted tree re-enters her vision.

* * *

Clementine’s not had her own child yet. The most exposure she has to babies, actually, is holding them for a few minutes and greeting new parents when they come to her, seeking The Bright One’s congratulations, which is always a heartwarming occasion.

So it’s a bit intimidating to leave the baby on her bed without her watchful eye, even when she’s just behind her. Swaddled up in a soft blankie, laid on her back, with nothing around to possibly suffocate on. Every thirty seconds Clementine turns to look back at her and she’s sure she’s gonna have a sore neck tomorrow. But, eventually, Clementine does relax, settling back into writing her monthly letter to Maman and company, before her more formal one to be addressed to the King and Queen of Thronum Mare. 

The tedium of writing gets her so chilled out she doesn’t even turn around when the door to her room creaks open. When footsteps approach her, blue arms coiling ‘round her shoulders. Clementine smiles, about to turn and welcome Gabby back from her own daily errands with a hug and a kiss, when a gasp ruptures the calm quiet.

“Pearl,” Gabby whispers, “whose puppy is that?”

Oh.

Clementine thinks that, maybe, she didn’t really consider the consequences of bringing home a baby without telling her mate. 


	2. What's In a Name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clementine goes back for some of that gross goop. Gabby tags along and lives up to her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not a lot of plot progress in this chapter; it's mostly fun dialogue. Not that this work is going to have a deep plot, anyway. Mostly it's Clementine struggling in a way that won't be heart-wrenching to watch.

“Poor darling.”

After a quick rundown of the Baby Situation, Gabby is quick to go give the tiny bundle on their bed a closer look. The dipping of the bed, the groan of its frame, causes some stirring, but the baby doesn’t wake. She just wiggles a little in the blanket, sighing and smacking her lips. Gabby tilts her head and blinks, stormy grey eye glittering. 

Clementine’s satisfied to watch from her chair; combining new things with Gabby usually means excitement abound, and this silent observation isn’t something Gabby really _does_. So it’s something of a treat to see. Her nose scrunches, a statement of her curiosity. Clementine remembers how she’d twitch her whiskers. Her chair creaks, body sinking further against it, feeling her chest give a pained throb. It’s been years and still Clementine finds her thoughts turning whenever she gets a moment to sink into her own mind. She’ll never forget; first, the agony of prematurely losing a horn, and second, how Gabby had… had _screamed_ , snarled, and wailed, clawing at herself and others around her as the change started-

“Dear heart?”

“H-hmm?” Clementine blinks her eyes clear of their far-off haziness, straightening in her seat, lending her full attention back to the pair on the bed. “W-wh-what’s u-up?”

Gabby’s got a smile on, but it looks… not quite right. Stuck between bursting into laughter and outright disgust. “The little one needs a clean blanket.” 

Clementine’s entire face scrunches up. She likes- well, _had_ liked that blanket.

x

Gabby accompanies Clementine back to where she found the baby. Clementine carries a bag full of preserving jars and Gabby carries the baby- swaddled in a fresh blanket and smelling _much_ better- in a makeshift sling. The entire way, Gabby fires off names of what they could potentially call this new bundle of responsibility. 

“Orange.”

“N-no.”

“Apple.”

“Nah. T-t-try ag-g-gain.”

“Peach! Apricot! Plum?” Even under Clementine’s scrutiny, Gabby keeps the list growing. “Lychee. No, not that one. You don’t look like a ‘Lychee’, do you?” She’s all smiles, waggling her fingers in front of the baby’s grabby mitts. Babbling, the baby just keeps reaching for Gabby’s fingers; her little hands clap together when they miss. “That’s true. Red is Catharine’s colour. Though if Catharine were a fruit… I think she would be some kind of berry. A strawberry? That’s red. Ooh, but a strawberry is _much_ too sweet. A raspberry, maybe? Tart, yet overall pleasant?” 

Clementine fondly rolls her eyes. 

“If Oscar were a fruit, she would be a kumquat. Not that she’s sour. I just think she’d be a kumquat because the name’s fun to say.” As if that logic needs an explanation. “She’s really great! I think you’ll like Oscar. She makes excellent funny faces. Rose and Marigold love them.” Their footsteps crunch across the gravelly ground as they near the cliffs. “...How do you feel about ‘Pomelo’? Pomelo is nice.”

“W-why ar-are you n-n-naming h-her af-after f-f-fruit?” Clementine asks, chortling. She can guess, but Gabby has her own reasons to do what she does, and Clementine loves how very different she can be.

“Well, you found her in one,” it’s a solid reason, and the first one Clementine would put forward, too. “Besides, _you’re_ named after a fruit. It’s not that weird to name her after one, too.”

“D-d-doesn’t luh-look like a f-fruh-fruit.” Clementine gestures at the baby.

“Yes, you would be the expert in that regard, wouldn’t you?” Gabby purses her lips in a provoking sort of way. Clementine doesn’t know if she wants to kiss her or slap her shoulder for the unexpected snipe. Possibly both. She just snorts instead, securing the bag to her back and then ducking down to grip a tendril of ivy. 

“Be careful, Pearl.” 

“I-I will b-be.” Clementine smiles reassuringly at her mate. She grapples down. She hears as Gabby continues to match fruits with friends until her voice gets too far away, the crash of water getting too loud. 

“Morello. That’s a cherry! Actually… no. That’s more suitable for Catharine… Okay. So if Catharine is a morello cherry, and Oscar is a kumquat, then Maman would be a pomegranate. She _loooves_ that colour. Dragon fruit is a good match for her, too. That makes King Michel a banana, because I think their visuals match perfectly, so Queen Sylvia must be…”

x

“...that’s why Sal would be a starfruit, and Magpie is a bundle of elderberries. Oh! That was fast,” Gabrielle leans down and gives her cheek a _smeck_ once Clementine’s got her feet back under herself. Clementine accepts it gracefully, going up onto the tips of her boots to return the gesture.

 _ <You’re still going on about fruit?> _Signs Clementine, her sticky hands flickering. She’s about to lick the remnants of sap off of her fingers before she remembers what the stuff tastes like. Gabby cocks her head in confusion at Clementine’s scowl. 

“Did you get something on your hands?” Deflects Gabby, plainly ignoring the question.

“Y-yeah,” Clementine grumbles. _ <She really likes this stuff, and I think it’s basically fruit breast milk, but it tastes really bad.> _

“How bad?” 

Clementine presents her hand forward. _ <See for yourself.> _

Okay, so; they’re definitely not in a setting Clementine would describe as sexy and the presence of a baby makes it undeniably _un-_ sexy, but there’s no helping the flip in her stomach as Gabby’s lips wrap around her fingertip, tongue pressing into the skin to lathe up the stickiness and salt. Gabby hums thoughtfully, pulling away; Clementine slowly releases the fullness of her lungs.

“Tastes like grapefruit,” Gabby comments with a single-shouldered shrug. 

_ <What? No.> _ Clementine shakes her head. _ <Grapefruit is sweet, not bitter enough to invert my face like this stuff.> _She holds up the bag full of jars, glass clinking quietly through the sturdy material. 

“It can be sweet, but it can be bitter, too. There’s the red kind, which is sweet, and the white or yellow kind, which is a lot more bitter than red grapefruit.” Gabby blinks at her. “Didn’t you know?”

_ <I didn’t.> _

“Darling, _you’re_ the horticulturalist between us.”

 _ <I don’t grow fruit! I grow trees!> _Clementine’s hands flap furiously.

“Some of those trees are fruit bearing, though?”

“F-fuh-fuck off,” Clementine innocuously barks, stomping away from Gabby’s infuriating grin.

“Don’t swear in front of Guava!”

“S-s-st- ** _stop_** trying to give her fruit names!”


	3. Love Doesn't Guarantee Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We dip our toes into Clementine's brain for a chapter. Some more characters are mentioned.

One of the benefits of having a city council is that she doesn’t have to do everything herself, anymore.

Before, Eden’s council was largely just… a group of advisors. Not that their work wasn’t appreciated; Clementine didn’t know shit about “ruling” a city when she was 16 aside from the largely black and white rules she’d have in place. Even at 21, being the leader of a city-state is a daunting task. But at least she doesn’t have to do  _ everything _ . If only she’d given into the suggestion of others’ help earlier. Maybe then Clementine would’ve never almost imploded on herself, stubbornly shouldering the weight of the entire world and ignoring the desperate cries of her loved ones, until it was a frayed thread away from being too late. 

Make no mistake: Clementine still does a lot. She’s in charge of infrastructure, being the only one who can communicate to the city of trees ‘hey we need to expand and or change some things’. She’s still the formal “ruler” of Eden, writing letters and missives every week to allies, trade partners,  _ et cetera _ . There are public appearances to make both inside and outside of Eden, though thankfully, those are rare. Have been rarer since reconstruction was finished. Reconstruction made necessary by her own internal crises. Thinking about it makes her chest ache- but it’s important to think about it. It’s important for Clementine to pick apart and categorize the why, what, how that lead to near catastrophe. 

_ You can’t keep pushing your own feelings aside. Repression makes bad memories into even worse monsters. Confront them before they grow teeth and claws. _

So Clementine does that now. Takes an hour out of the end of her day just to sit and think. Writes down the thoughts that puzzle her the most in a leather-bound journal gifted by Raksha, a dual effort of mothering on her and Sabine’s behalf. She’s nearing the end of the book- volume three in a series.  _ “Hi, I’m Clementine, and I Was Taught to Always be In Control Instead of Honest With Myself.”  _

Clementine doesn’t think that it was Abraham’s intention for her installation of the “always be in control always” mantra to make her, for lack of better term, emotionally constipated. Abraham wanted what was best for her (and for the rest of the world). Unfortunately, Abraham’s self-taught self-control method worked better for Abraham, and not a traumatized tween who’d already been pulling horrors of the psyche from others into herself. 

Reflection hour is starting early tonight, some far-off part of Clementine’s brain tuts while she stares down at the mostly-finished letter she’s penning to Abraham. Its subject: the baby, where Clementine found the baby, and the odd affect the baby has on her vine-arm. It’s all come to a halt now. A screeching halt, as a matter of fact, as the memories of Abraham’s well-meaning instruction to bury everything that makes her feel  _ too _ much float to the surface like pondscum. Flipping the pen caught in her fingers, Clementine allows her hand to fall into the repetitive motion as her eyes cloud over. 

Abraham knows more about magic than anyone. If there’s anyone who can put Clementine on the right track to begin research about the baby’s apparent flower powers, it’s Abraham. 

Abraham’s a sort of scholar herself. She’s curious. She likes solving mysteries. Abraham would be just as interested, if not more, in the infant as Clementine herself. 

Abraham is stubborn. Iron-willed. Abraham doesn’t give up on things easily. If she takes a particular interest in the child…

...would Clementine ever see her again? At least, would Clementine see the baby before she wasn’t a baby, anymore? Or would she end up raised by the Helsings, by Abraham, returning a decade later to Eden and telling Clementine all about how much she likes it there at the Helsing abbey, tucked away into the remote mountains and hidden by snow, interacting with magick if only to be taught how to wrangle, suppress, dampen it out of being a potential threat? Would she say Abraham was mentoring her personally and teaching her all about...

_ Control? _

__ ...the very idea hits Clementine like a suckerpunch. She folds over a corner of her almost-complete letter. Then it’s crunched up into a ball, left to sit on her desk, because  _ dammit _ she can’t come to a conclusive decision. She still loves Abraham. Abraham is like her  _ mother _ . But she doesn’t know if she  _ trusts _ Abraham, especially not with a kid that could have the same potential and power as Clementine. Sighing heavily as she slumps back in her chair, Clementine clenches the base of a horn in her fleshy hand, the immediate buzz keeping her mind from going off-kilter again. 

Abraham would mess the kid up. Abraham  _ could _ mess the kid up. It’s definitely a possibility. Abraham could, also, teach the kid a lot of things that are good to know. But do the good things outweigh the potential of having a child grow up like she did? A child that pushes her needs aside for the sake of others, even up to the point of her collapsing into herself, becoming a blackhole of despair and pulling others into that anguish to become just like her, a shapeless being of pain and confusion and-

“We’re baaack!” Graceful as she can be, Gabby shoves through their bedroom door, one arm weighed down with a big canvas bag, the other wrapped around the bundle in the sling at her chest. “I went and got all those things Hana and hers said we would need. Egg says hi! Little Dove does, too! By goodness, she’s growing fast, twice the size she was when you saw her last time! Makes this little one look like a grape next to her.” Laughing as she bounces the giggling baby in her arm, Gabby wanders over to her mate, who hasn’t responded with much else but a startled stare. “Pearl?” Gabby cocks her head to the side. 

“It’s nuh-nothing,” Clementine stands from her chair fast enough to give her a head rush. “Sh-show muh-me w-what y-y-you guh-got? H-how a-are Puh-puh-p-  _ ugh _ . T-the o-others?” 

“They’re doing well,” passing the  _ officially _ tiniest baby ever to Clementine, Gabby unburdens herself of the canvas bag. “Absolutely  _ full _ of questions, of course.  _ Where did you get that _ ;  _ we don’t even need to ask who the mother is, do we, looks just like Clementine, _ you know.” Gabby unclips the straps of the bag, flipping over the top flap. “Oh! According to the professional parents, this puppy is about four months into development. I didn’t tell them we found her just a few days ago for their own sanity.” she relays, grinning wryly. 

“Probaby fuh-for th-the best,” Clementine mutters as she puts the sling over her shoulder, smiling down at her passenger. “H-hi.” She wiggles her fingers for the tyke to grab at. Clementine smiles with teeth at the swift capture of a digit. 

“Let’s explain the purpose of all these things to Grimm, luv. Wouldn’t want them to get into the baby cream… And I don’t want to imagine the chaos of Grimm combined with this powder.”

Clementine chortles. Personally, she wouldn’t mind a front seat to that chaos. “Y-y’know, G-Guh-Grimm w-would prob-probably l-like to help w-with th-the b-baby.” Gabby looks up from unpacking a great bounty of clean nappies onto their bed. “Th-they l-luh-like h-her. T-they s-say sh-she’s buh-br-bright.”

“Bright?” Gabby looks at her closely. Looks at Clementine, at the baby, closely. “Like…?”

“Y-yeah.” Clementine meets her eye with a smile, expression equal parts perplexed and warm. “L-like me.”


End file.
